When I was small,
your hands moved over me
Then I was big. I was
tumbling for scraps,
the men, the meth,
the baby. I became
a swollen moon cresting.
Is it tornado season,
already? Outside the trees
are still but the phone
rings only when it’s angry.
I do not sleep anymore.
I do not write anymore.
Today when you brought over
one awkward watermelon,
would not even touch me.
For Kate, Always
Our Chaucer, I think, would have sighed.
He would have assured us, shaking his sorrowful head,
That day the solar system married us
Whether we knew it or not
Now that we spent an afternoon with Crow.
Now in the breadth of highway between us.
Now after your presented death and my
Wide like a canyon, like the end
Of God’s whip, I can appreciate
Our limestone. Parched. How quickly
We pressed and built up. How quickly
We could wear. And don’t. I said
I love you
For your daughter, for your poems
Of home and mothers, dire wolves
And quiet words. I loved you
Even for the afternoon you called me,
Voice of a cornered deer, lost, mouth wide
And gaping fear in the cornfield.
I was there
More than a thousand miles away.
More than a crow. More than
I knew I loved you,
When the cops showed up,
When she said ‘drop it, drop it right now!’
And you held onto the knife,
Pressed it to your pale neck and said
I love you.
It was more then
And it is more now. The steady
Progression of time.
The crow calling both of us
To love again.
Rhiannon Thorne is the managing editor of cahoodaloodaling, a Sundress Publications journal; an associate interviewer for Up the Staircase Quarterly; and the upcoming editorial assistant for The Southern Review. A 2016 BinderCon LA Scholarship recipient, Rhiannon’s poetry has appeared in Black Warrior Review,Manchester Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Midwest Quarterly, and The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review, among others. She is currently fulfilling her queerbilly dreams as an MFA candidate at Louisiana State University where she co-directed the 2018 Delta Mouth Literary Festival.
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